Memento
by AudentesFortunaIuvat
Summary: A non-linear deduction of the issue of Sherlock Holmes' heart and how a self professed 'high functioning sociopath' falls in love.
1. In The Beginning

**AN: **

**Gentle reminder that since I started writing this fic waaaay back before series 3 came out, I wrote my head canons unapologetically, like drug of choice and Mummy and Father and so on. And though I like canon!Mummy and Father and Sherlock's actual drug of choice and how the canon of series 3 played, I just didn't want to bother with the revisions. Also, Brit-picked by me in certain areas, but not all. I'm an American Londoner, but I ain't perfect. You understand.**

**And, a very big thank you to btch_sprinkles on AO3 for not only beta'ing this fic, but encouraging me and being an amazing friend. Love you, soul sister. **

**Also, if you get my cross-fandom/historical references, I'll give you a prize. :D**

* * *

**Chapter One: In The Beginning**

* * *

Sherlock remembers what life was like before he met John. He lives alone in a small, one bedroom flat on Montague Street. Once a week, Mycroft sends a cleaning lady over because god forbid Sherlock ever clean up after himself. Sherlock likes his flat because it's close to St Bart's and right across the street from the British Museum. Secretly, he loves the British Museum. Everyone thinks Sherlock hates it because of how crowded it is and how many tourists litter the exhibits. Everyone thinks Sherlock can't filter through the barrage of information that's presented to him.

_Cheating on his wife of 13 years_

_Cancer patient hiding his diagnosis from his children_

_American pretending to be English_

_Suffering from manic depression_

_Alcoholic for at least five years_

_Teenage girl trying to hide the hickey on her neck_

But actually, Sherlock is fully capable of filtering through the information. In fact, he's even able to not notice a thing if that's what he wants. Normally though, Sherlock doesn't do that. He still likes to know what's going on around him.

What people don't seem to realize is that Sherlock's powers of deduction aren't so much an involuntary ability as they are a learned skill. Yes, Sherlock's parents have had his IQ tested and yes, it's very high. Yes, he's much more observant than the average person, and it's not that he can't keep his mouth shut but that he just doesn't see the point of doing so.

Sherlock loves to look at all the ancient exhibits, all the skulls and bones of people who were alive thousands of years ago. He wishes he could deduce them, wishes he could know every minute detail of their primitive lives. What did they like to eat? What streets did they like to walk down the most? Did they like music? Did they know how to read? Who loved them most in the world?

Sometimes, when he's feeling particularly lonely, Sherlock spends all day in the museum. He looks at the royal Egyptian mummies and wonders what it would be like to have his brain liquefied in his head and pulled out through his nose. He looks at the Egyptian sarcophagi of Roman emigrants and wonders what it was about Egypt that made them want to live their lives there instead of Italy. He looks at all the ancient pottery and tools and statues, and wonders how all this history led up to him. He shuffles around the exhibits all day and silently wonders what it would be like to still be him, but an ancient version that prayed to gods and went to festivals and fought in battles and argued politics and married a young woman he didn't know and lived a normal life.

Sherlock's never told anyone about this. Everyone already thinks he's freakish enough. But then, Sherlock doesn't really have any friends to tell this to anyway. He's got his skull, but he doesn't really count, does he?

* * *

People are always shocked to learn Sherlock's as young as he is, not even out of his twenties yet. His whole life, people have always assumed he's much older than he is because of the way he looks and the way he dresses and the way he carries himself. Sometimes, Sherlock will even go so far as to reveal his birthday to stunned strangers just to get them to shut up.

"6th January 1981," he'll say, rolling his eyes. "It's always been 6th January 1981."

The last time he had to say this was to an old friend of Mummy's called Frannie. He'd gone round to visit not long after his birthday with Mycroft one Sunday. His mother, never one to pass up bragging about either of her sons, boasted about her baby boy the chemist and how he'd just turned 28 and could you even believe it! Mycroft had laughed into his teacup at Sherlock; he never missed an opportunity to try to embarrass him.

"Yes, my baby brother," Mycroft drawls. "The _chemist_," he finishes, implying something more as he flashes Frannie that conciliatory grin he flashes everyone.

"And my _big _brother," Sherlock strains, with an equally implying tone. "The diplomat." They glare at each other for a few moments, like they're trying to stare bullet holes into the other. But their mother swats them affectionately with the newspaper and reminds them that they're brothers and to behave. They both cross their arms, Mycroft to try to hide his body and Sherlock to get his arms to stop aching with cravings.

Mummy pretends not to notice though and instead recounts a story to dear old Frannie about a time when six year old Sherlock flung his plate of roast lamb and carrots at Mycroft for making fun of his haircut. It's one of Mummy's favorites and Sherlock doesn't remember how many times he's heard it now. She's so proud of her sons; the government official and the professional chemist/amateur detective (though you'd never hear Sherlock ever describe himself as an amateur anything). Never mind the fact that one of them is a recovering drug addict and the other a narcissistic misanthrope. As long as you ignore the unpleasant though, the unpleasant will simply fade away.

British sentimentality at it's most high. Keep calm and carry on and all that tripe.

Sherlock remembers filtering for the rest of that conversation, instead sitting in the room marked UNSOLVED MURDER CASES in his mind palace to see if he can resolve anything. He doesn't. It only makes him more annoyed and irritated.

* * *

Sherlock remembers the two people he's ever had, what normal people would call, relationships with. At Eton, there'd been a boy he'd liked called David. He'd always been kind to Sherlock and laughed at his jokes about their classmates and never called him "freak." Sherlock supposes David was his best friend only because he was his _only_ friend. But David had been very popular, he had lots of friends and would sneak out of the grounds at night and smoke cigarettes and had lots of girlfriends that lived in town. Sherlock remembers wondering what David was doing even hanging around him at all.

"What, I can't just think you're ace?" Sherlock remembers David asking him one day as he helped Sherlock collect the books that had been smacked out of his hands. Sherlock remembers giving David a funny look, which David laughed at and then ushered Sherlock up to his room to listen to music and make fun of all their instructors.

David and Sherlock stayed friends all throughout school, but Sherlock never did become friends with any of David's. None of them liked him, constantly making fun of Sherlock in front of him and always barking at David why he even bothered with that mental arsehole Sherlock Holmes.

As they got older, Sherlock started to hear the whispers around campus. _Poofters, faggots, arse bandits, nancy boys_. Sherlock didn't care though, only because David didn't seem to care. They kept on being mates, kept on not caring. They smoked pot together and listened to music together and waxed philosophical about life together. And Sherlock watched David get more and more popular and shag more and more girls and felt more and more jealous, though he couldn't figure out why.

But then one night after David smuggled in some cheap wine for him and Sherlock. This wasn't anything new, but they got pissed and Sherlock was nothing short of surprised when David kissed him on the football pitch. Sherlock remembers he had never felt more nervous than in that moment; inexperience was never something Sherlock dealt with well. He also remembers realizing why he'd been so jealous, as the shape of David's lips formed over his own.

"We don't have to do anything…" David breathed against Sherlock's mouth after a while. Somehow, he'd managed to unbutton Sherlock's shirt and get his trousers halfway off.

"No…I want to," Sherlock whispered before going back to kissing him.

And then David showed him what he'd been missing all that time locked up in the lab with his chemicals or in his room with his music.

But then they lost touch. Sherlock went to Oxford and David to Cambridge. They wrote to each other in the first few months, even took the train to London a couple of times to spend the day together and would end up snogging in Regent's Park. But then life happened, nothing special or momentous in particular, and Sherlock and David simply faded apart.

A few years later at university, there'd been a girl called Samantha. She didn't have many friends either, but she was a genius at chemistry and Sherlock loved talking to her about all their different experiments. One night in the lab, while they'd been working on a difficult project for their class, Samantha had kissed him and he kissed her back. Sherlock remembers being nervous with Samantha too because he'd never been with a woman and was afraid he wouldn't know how to please her. But Samantha had been a willing teacher and Sherlock loved to learn new things.

Sherlock refuses to say what they'd been doing was "dating." It's just so pedestrian. But that's what happened. Sherlock and Samantha kept on with each other for over three years. They even lived together for a little while when Samantha had to move out of her flat because of a horrible row with her flatmate. Sherlock remembers the first time she'd told him she loved him.

He'd made a joke while in the queue and she just said it.

"I love you, Sherlock."

His eyes went wide and he didn't know what to say. He supposed he did love her, if he had to guess. He certainly didn't hate her. Samantha was kind and caring and patient, she never yelled at Sherlock when he annoyed her or when he just wanted to be left alone. He knew he was comfortable with her, but Sherlock's never really thought about what love is though.

"It's ok, Sherlock. You don't have to say anything," Samantha reassured him.

But then Sherlock had discovered that wonderful thing cocaine and he loved how he could stay awake for days and work and not have to eat a single thing. Sure, sometimes he'd scream. Sure, sometimes he'd throw things around. Sure, he wanted sex much more frequently. She tolerated it because she loved him even though it scared her.

But one night, Sherlock had an incredibly vivid hallucination about an old friend of Mummy's and her abusive husband. She'd come round once and a while, and Sherlock was fond of her because she always brought special treats just for him. But Mummy would sometimes shut Sherlock out of the room when Mrs Hudson would come over, and talk in harsh whispers behind closed doors. Mummy nor Mrs Hudson ever knew Sherlock would secretly stand at the door and listen to all the awful things Mr Hudson did to his wife.

So when Sherlock thought he was getting his chance to finally fight back for her, he felt just and righteous. But then he heard Samantha scream, and he realized he was on the verge of becoming the monster that was Mr Hudson. Sherlock begged her to forgive him, cried about how he'd never hurt her. But Samantha couldn't take it anymore. She left Sherlock to save herself. She never looked back.

It only made him want the cocaine more.

* * *

"Well, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shuffles around the body, silently taking in and filtering through the data.

"Sherlock, anything, please."

"Inspector, I found traces o- oh God, him again?!"

Sherlock ignores the idiotic CSI, God, what's his name - Petersen, Christiansen, Sorensen. Whatever.

"He contaminates the crime scene, the body, everything! Why do you let him in here to muck everything up?!"

"Mark Breckenridge, aged 37, recently married, worked in aviation from the faint smell of jet fuel. Had an affinity for Nepal, 3 jewelry items and his shirt are all made from fabric found there, that and he's also got a 5 ruppe note and a bus ticket from Kathmandu dated 4 years ago in his wallet."

In the background, Sherlock hears the irritating man yell, "He touched the body?!"

Sherlock continues, "Prone to anxiety disorders judging by the biting of his nails and wrinkles around his lips. He also seems to have adhered to Hinduism, possibly for his wife."

"His wife?" The annoying CSI officer croaks.

"Yes, his wife," Sherlock says, brandishing a picture of the couple at their traditional Hindu ceremony and handing it to Lestrade.

"There's also pamphlets in his pocket, some clean, some marked up with hate speech. This neighborhood is littered with white supremacists, a leading member lives right down the street, I think. You might find it useful to question every man on this street, you're likely to find your murderer quite easily," Sherlock concludes, walking out of the room.

Lestrade, looking impressed, says to Andersen, "That's why I let him in here."

* * *

Sherlock hates the country, he always has. He's always loved the bustle of the city, the smell of it, the way the air feels. He likes having lots of people to deduce and figure out. What Sherlock doesn't like are animals. Pigs and cows walking around, loose amongst the people. It's disgusting. And horses, horses are the worst of all. Sherlock's done his best to keep it secret the reason why he hates horses. Only a few people know the reason why, Mycroft being one of them.

Their father had made Mycroft and Sherlock take horse riding lessons when they were boys. He said it would make them fine, upstanding, well rounded gentlemen. Sherlock was always uncomfortable riding the animals because they're bigger than he is and have minds of their own. One day, his horse was being particularly unruly and Sherlock couldn't control him. The horse threw him, and Sherlock fell and broke his arm. He remembers some of the children laughing at him because he was the only one who could never get his horse to yield to him. He remembers Mycroft running to him because he was crying, and Mycroft yelling for someone to get a doctor or a nurse or someone, anyone! Sherlock also remembers pushing Mycroft away nastily because he already looked weak enough in front of the other children and he didn't need his meddling older brother adding to the embarrassment.

Neither one of them has ever brought this up; Sherlock, because it's too embarrassing, and Mycroft, because it's too painful. Sometimes, Mummy will bring it up at dinners or luncheons because she remembers it very differently from the boys. Mummy simply remembers it as the time Sherlock fell and Mycroft took care of him. Neither of them stops her when she tells it because they both know that it means something to her, even if they hate it. For Mummy, it means something special remembering a time when Mycroft showed how much he loved his younger brother and Sherlock showing how much he loved his older brother by accepting that love. But when she tells it, they both have the most strained looks on their faces, and they never comment or add to the story, even if she begs them to. Mummy will never understands it and, the boys will never explain.

"See, I told you! I'll _always _win, Sherlock."

"No! We're not finished! Give me another one, I'll beat you this time!"

Mycroft lowers himself to stare into the eyes of eight year old Sherlock. Sherlock tries to seem brave by staring back.

"Fine. One last one." Mycroft straightens himself and looks out the window of the sitting room. "Mrs Spencer, across the way," he points lazily.

"Mummy's friend, Mrs Spencer?" Sherlock asks sheepishly.

"Yes, Mummy's _friend_," Mycroft condescends.

Sherlock sits in his favorite chair and closes his eyes, mentally going over everything he knows about dear, sweet, lovely Mrs Spencer.

_Philippa Spencer, born Philippa Courtney, originally from Brighton, birth year 1938, pretends it's 1942. Married George Spencer 1960, 4 children, Georgiana, Eliza, Harriet, and William. Secretly abuses quaaludes, has wanted to divorce Mr Spencer for at least 10 years, owns no property or money, plastic surgery around the eyes and mout-_

"Faster, Sherlock, I haven't got all day!"

Sherlock speeds out all he knows about Mrs Spencer and all the things he's deduced, even firing off things he didn't have time to think about. When he's finished, he flashes Mycroft a smug smile, knowing for once he's finally got the best of him. Mycroft crosses the room, once again lowering himself to glare into Sherlock's eyes.

"Don't try to be smart, Sherlock. I'm the smart one," Mycroft hisses. He turns on his heels, hands in his pockets, and makes towards the door.

"What'd I miss?" Sherlock calls after him. "Tell me, what did I miss?!" He says, running after Mycroft, pulling on his arm. Mycroft shakes him off roughly and Sherlock almost falls backwards.

"Oh, just everything of importance," he mutters carelessly as he walks away.

Sherlock never did find out what he missed.

* * *

**Please R&R! It's good for the soul! Thanks for reading! XX**


	2. The Skull

**Chapter Two: The Skull**

* * *

A week after John moves in, Sherlock begins to notice things.

John never eats raspberry jam. John never takes sugar in his tea or coffee. John doesn't like wearing socks. If John doesn't sleep well the night before, he falls asleep sitting upright in his arm chair. Little things like this.

Today, John accidentally puts on too much aftershave and Sherlock can smell him before he's even in the room. Sherlock leers at him as he plops down in the armchair. Almost like John knows what he's thinking, he says, "Sorry, the aftershave spilled."

Sherlock turns to face the back of the couch and smiles to himself. John picks up the newspaper and sighs. He wants to read but can't find the interest.

"Nothing good," Sherlock mutters, more to the couch than to John.

John sighs again and sloppily folds the newspaper back up.

"Right," he says, "you feel like breakfast?"

Sherlock peeks out from behind him to survey John. He looks him up and down and quickly buries his head back into the couch cushions.

"Only if you change your shirt, that aftershave is awful."

John laughs and goes back upstairs to his room. He's back in a few minutes with a fresh shirt and not smelling so badly. Sherlock knows he's there, but he's still curled up into the back of the couch. John makes a small sound and Sherlock pretends not to hear him.

"Well? You coming then?" John asks.

Sherlock grunts his reply and John rolls his eyes playfully.

"I'm going to Speedy's. See you there."

By the time Sherlock strolls downstairs, he sees John's ordered a full breakfast for him. He even put the raspberry jam on his toast, just the way Sherlock likes.

* * *

"Oi, you want a cuppa?"

"What?"

"A cup of tea, do you want one?"

"_You're_ making tea?!"

"I do know how to make tea, John, yes!"

A second later, John pokes his head around the corner, his hair dripping water and shampoo down his face. He squints at Sherlock, looking him up and down.

"What'd you put in it?"

"Nothing!"

He inspects Sherlock for a moment. "You're lying," John says finally, turning back to the bathroom to finish his shower.

Sherlock groans and slips the flurazepam back into his dressing gown pocket. _Another Wednesday,_ he thinks.

* * *

Sherlock remembers when he took that skull. It wasn't long after he got the job at Bart's five years ago as a clinical chemist, which was nice because they let him come in whenever he wanted and stay as long as he liked, just as long as he met deadlines. He was also allowed use of lab supplies for experiments as long as they weren't too extravagant or expensive. Sherlock always thought this was strange since Bart's is funded by the British government until he remembered that Mycroft _is_ the British government. Sherlock pretends he doesn't know Mycroft has arranged for him to have access to lab supplies simply because it's convenient for him and it keeps his boredom at bay.

About two months after he starts at Bart's, a doe-eyed girl begins work as a new medical examiner. She's tiny and shy and sometimes can't seem to find the courage to hold people's eye contact. He soon finds out her name is Molly Hooper and is completely surprised to learn that she's two years older than him. He really shouldn't be though.

Molly is introverted and quiet, but not in the way Sherlock is quiet. Sherlock is quiet the way a tiger is before it pounces on its prey. Sherlock is quiet in order to better observe the people around him. Sherlock is quiet by choice. Molly though, she's silent because she doesn't know what to say, or how to say it without her voice croaking to life. Sometimes she stammers or chatters excitedly when she's around him. These are the times Sherlock filters the most. He couldn't tell you even if he wanted to what she says during these times. But when Molly talks about work, she's forceful, strong, confident. When she's examining a body, testing for trace chemicals, running tox screens, Molly is thorough. Molly is comfortable. Molly is certain.

Sherlock has evaluated her work - it's sound and competent. So he has no choice but to like her, even if most of their personal conversations are strained and uncomfortable because Molly is constantly asking what he's doing for dinner, or if his girlfriend got him something nice for Valentine's Day, or what he likes to do when he's not working. Molly gives him access to the morgue when she shouldn't, to bodies when she's already officially finished the paperwork on them, and for whatever reason, because Molly liked him first.

So one night, after sneaking into the morgue to examine how eyeballs deteriorate after death, Sherlock finds a skeleton that Molly has only partially completed putting together. Her interns cleaned the bones nicely, but judging from the precision of their pristine condition, Molly finished the job. Sherlock realizes the skull isn't connected like he thought, and picks it up to examine it closely. He can tell Molly's taken care of these bones; even when the flesh and meat and brain are gone, Molly still thinks of them as people. Sherlock processes through the bones of the face as he examines it.

_Frontal, parietal, sphenoid, temporal, nasal, and zygomatic bones; maxilla: zygomatic, nasal, alveolar, and palatine processes..._

The skull in his hands had belonged to a man, black, who had a significant tie to France in his ancestry. He'd been in his late 20's, early 30's when he died. Well fed and healthy, he'd died from something unrelated to his health. A traffic accident maybe, or a break in at his home. Sherlock bends down to examine the rest of the bones and finds tiny holes in both knows those marks, where the needle digs in too deep because you're just that thirsty for the rush.

_These bones belonged to a man who was a drug addict._

He stands there, by the slab, staring at the bones of this once-human, wide eyed and empty. He had been Sherlock's age, a little taller than him, his weight, he even had the same high cheekbones his mother loves to run her thumb across. This skeleton, this _man_, he is a mirror of Sherlock, of what Sherlock could become. Another nameless corpse whose flesh and organs have been thrown away in bags marked HUMAN WASTE.

There's no name tag on this slab, no paperwork either. Only scissors and glue and sutures to articulate the bones back together so they can hang in the corner of a room for first year medical students to gawk at. Sherlock picks up the skull again and stares into the space where eyes used to be. He wonders why it's so easy to look at the skulls in the museum and why it's so nauseating to look at this one.

_Those were skeletons of people from thousands, sometimes millions of years ago. They stopped being people long before any of us were even born. _

Sherlock supposes it's hard because _this _skeleton only recently ceased to be a person. This person left a wake of devastation after his death. This person can still be felt by the people he left behind.

Sherlock slams the skull down and sits on the nearby stool. He hangs his head and runs his fingers through his curls in an anxious rush. He does this for longer than he realizes while he calms his breathing. He shakes out the horrible thoughts that it could just as easily be him on the slab, nothing but bones and needle marks, and this man standing over him, looking at him wondering who it is that's most affected by his death. He can't shake the desire to just know what his name was. He looks back at the skull staring at him, empty, hollow, void. In the recesses of his mind, he hears a young Mycroft say _Billy. _He hasn't thought about that in years.

Before he realizes what he's doing, Sherlock snatches the skull and hides it in his coat under his arm. He rushes home, sets it on his mantle, and stares at it while he prepares an injection. He swears this'll be the last one. One last time.

_Just one. Last. Time._

* * *

Today, Sherlock is moping about a lack of cases. He's laying on the couch trying not to enjoy the burn of his nicotine patches too much when he just can't take the boredom anymore. He groans loudly and launches himself off the couch.

"_Why_ do you insist on doing that?"

"What?"

"_That!"_ John scolds, pointing at Sherlock with the newspaper to see him standing on the coffee table. Sherlock looks at him genuinely confused and shrugs his shoulders. John straightens himself angrily in his chair, resting his head in his hand.

"Your mum never scolded you when you walk all over her furniture then?"

Again, Sherlock throws him a confused look as he says, "No, she yelled at me constantly about not standing on her tables. She bought them all at auctions an-"

"Obviously didn't make much of an impression with you, did it?" John accuses, cutting Sherlock off.

"Yes, it did. She'd always tell me, '_Sherlock darling,'"_ he says in a high pitched, affected voice and twiddling his fingers in the air,_ "'when you have a home of your own, you can do whateeeever you want with the furniture. Until then, stay off my antique mahogany!' _ So now I'm doing whatever I want with my furniture," he finishes in a monotone voice.

John stares at him for a moment and then bursts out laughing, eventually going back to reading the newspaper.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock calls, still standing on the coffee table.

"You," John says, wiping his eyes. "Explains so much," he says to himself.

Sherlock finally gets off the coffee table when the doorbell rings. Typical love affair case. Man says he'll pay anything to have his girlfriend followed. Sherlock promptly kicks him out of the flat. He doesn't stop moping until Lestrade calls with a case at nine that night.

Sherlock remembers promising John dinner at his favorite Indian place on Brick Lane if he'll cancel his date to come with. Sherlock also remembers hearing her scream at John through the phone to fuck off and never call her again. He seems OK with it later that night after getting some samosas and chicken vindaloo into him. John is easy to please like that.

* * *

Even John is shocked when he learns how young Sherlock is.

"You mean, you were barely 29 when we first met?" He exclaims one night over a Thai takeaway. Sherlock sighs heavily, not wanting to have the discussion about how the year he was born has _always been _1981, and how the shock of finding that out doesn't negate the fact. Sherlock is sitting on the floor and John on the couch, so he can barely see Sherlock roll his eyes when he huffs.

"I'm still 29," he states simply. It's that same tone of voice he takes with Anderson when he's, well, talking.

"Yeah, I...I...get that now," John says, realizing that with all the commotion of the first few days of their friendship they never really mentioned their ages, even in passing.

"I'm 35," he blurts out. Sherlock turns around to raise an eyebrow at him.

"I know," Sherlock says evenly, turning back to his food. John sits quietly for a moment. Sherlock seems to preternaturally know everything about him; it should stop surprising him to hear it said out loud.

"How'd you know?" John inquires. He leans back into the couch so he can see Sherlock better if he turns around.

"I've been told on many occasions it's bad to talk about people's ages," he says simply as he continues to shove his food around on his plate. Sherlock remembers lots of afternoon teas with Mummy and her indignant friends, always trying to look younger when it just made them look older. He learned how to deduce age from all those afternoons with Mummy's desperate friends.

John huffs behind him. "Can't think of a time _that's_ ever stopped you," he says dryly.

Sherlock glances at him over his shoulder. John is leaned back with his arms crossed over his chest; one half of his mouth is upturned in a crooked smile, but he's not really happy. Amused is more like it. He's squinting his eyes that way he does when Sherlock's said something wrong, but his smile isn't one of those he smiles when he's really frustrated or angry. Like that smile John shot him when he had to correct Sherlock's definition of a date or that time Sherlock made John travel across London to send a text from his own mobile. This one's more like that time Sherlock told John he was married to his work or the time Sherlock twirled him around to make him remember the Chinese graffiti. He's not mad or disappointed or irritated; he's eager, astonished, like that first night in the cab.

Sherlock turns around back to his plate and says quickly, "Depth of wrinkles in your forehead, firmness of the skin on your hands, your pock marks and acne scarring are only slightly visible, but still, the discoloration is just enough to tell your age. Your clothing and fashion choices are in the style of most 30-40 years old now, trying to look younger but don't feel younger. There's also an anti-aging cream in the bathroom you pretend you don't use by putting it back in the same place every time." He turns around to face John but doesn't look at him as he concludes, "I know you use it though." He looks up at John, "So you can stop pretending."

John laughs a genuine laugh and Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief. He can't figure out why though. He already knows John likes him, why does he still feel so nervous about these things?

"I'm surprised you didn't deduce my bloody birthday but the kind of socks I wear or the sound of my alarm clock!" John exclaims.

"I dunno, it's sometime this month, isn't it?" Sherlock returns to his food and mindlessly watching the telly.

"Yeah…." John confirms slowly. "How'd you know?"

"Because your sister won't stop bloody texting you."

John laughs again and rubs his eyes. "Yeah, yeah I s'pose she has been a lot…" he says trailing off. They don't really talk for the rest of the night, just comments here and there about whatever programme is on. Sherlock on the floor, John on the couch, John's leg nearly touching Sherlock's arm all night. Sherlock hasn't sat this close to another human being for this long in years.

* * *

**AN: Thank you so much for reading! I'm going on vacation this weekend, so I'll try to get the next chapter out as soon as possible! XX**


	3. The Pool

**Chapter Three: The Pool**

* * *

The next time they go out to eat is after they've solved a case. After Sherlock finishes a case is when he eats the most, almost to the point of it being unhealthy. He finds he doesn't realize just how hungry he is until his mind is able to calm down. Tonight, he and John are at Angelo's. John watches Sherlock in wide eyed horror as he devours two starters and a main.

"You really should eat more often," John instructs. "It's not healthy for you to binge like this."

"Whu…?" Sherlock mumbles, his mouth full of chicken and potatoes.

"You sho – oh, nothing," John sighs. There's no use in lecturing him. Sherlock will never listen anyway. John puts his fork down and looks around the restaurant.

"You gonna eat that?" Sherlock asks as he motions to John's plate of half eaten pasta with his head.

"I could do with a drink," John says, cringing at Sherlock who doesn't wait for John's answer about finishing his dinner. Sherlock is picking from both their plates now and John supposes he shouldn't be bothered since they're not exactly paying for anything tonight.

"Wonder where Angelo got off to…" John says under his breath as he cranes his neck to see if he can spot the man. Finally he catches him and orders a scotch.

"Mmh, two scotches," Sherlock adds, wiping his mouth with his hand. John gives him a chiding look as he throws a serviette at him. Sherlock looks at him apologetically and wipes his mouth with the cloth.

"Not good?"

"Bit not good."

John chuckles at him as Angelo drops the drinks off at the table.

"Oh! Can't believe I forgot!" Angelo says to himself and turns away from the pair. He returns a few moments later with a lit candle.

"More romantic," he says, tapping the edge of the table and winking at John. Neither John nor Sherlock correct him. Sherlock looks up at John just as he slurps a string of pasta into his mouth, and John can't stop laughing.

* * *

"SHERLOCK!"

Face down, wrapped up in his covers, Sherlock opens a bleary eye at the sound of John howling his name from the kitchen.

"Of course there's no milk! There's a tongue and 6 thumbs in our fridge, but GOD FORBID we have milk for the bloody tea! _When _am I gonna learn that you NEVER BUY MILK WHEN YOU SAY YOU WILL?"

Sherlock hears John banging around the kitchen, grunting his frustration and annoyance. He hears John mutter, "All I want is some fucking milk, is that so much to ask?" before he leaves the flat for the surgery. Sherlock chuckles softly and burrows back into his covers and pillows.

Secretly, Sherlock loves John's tantrums. Secretly, it makes Sherlock feel better about his own outbursts, like he's not as strange as he thinks he is. Secretly, they only endear him to Sherlock more.

* * *

Sherlock remembers reading that there are 9 million people in London, so there has to be some children there who are like him. He could make friends with boys and girls who are as smart and observant as he is. He remembers Mummy promising him he'd make friends when he started at Dragon School. But Mummy was wrong. At Dragon is where the teasing really started, where Sherlock realized that having _friends_ wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Sherlock remembers coming home for Christmas holiday and telling Mummy how sad he was that everyone was so mean to him.

"You're just different, darling," his mother says while sipping her tea. "They're just cruel because you're so much smarter than they are, my sweet boy."

"I am?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes, sweetheart," she says, grabbing his chin and kissing him roughly on the cheek. "You're smarter and better than they are. Now come over here and let's see if you can beat me at chess."

Sherlock remembers that was the first time he ever won against Mummy, feeling strangely confident and powerful from her insistence at his superiority. Later that night, Sherlock barges into Mycroft's room. He's reading a book on advanced nuclear physics and is highly annoyed Sherlock has disturbed him.

"Mycroft, do you have any friends at Oxford?" Sherlock asks as a way of announcing himself. Mycroft throws a look of disdain at Sherlock over his shoulder.

"Friends?" Mycroft laughs heartily, "Whatever would I need _friends_ for?"

"I don't know, to have fun with and tell stories to. Everyone has friends, right?"

"No, Sherlock," he says sharply. "Now go away, I'm reading."

"Mummy says I'm smarter than the other children," Sherlock says, ignoring Mycroft's order to leave and instead climbing up onto Mycroft's four-poster and flopping down on his stomach. "Mummy says that's why they're so mean to me." Mycroft closes his book and turns towards Sherlock with a tight smile on his face.

"Mummy would be right," he says through clenched teeth.

"That I'm smarter?" Sherlock says, perking up.

"Than other children? I suppose," Mycroft answers, rolling his eyes. "Than _me_?" He chuckles quietly at his rhetorical question. Sherlock scrunches his face in annoyance.

"I mean it! Mummy said I'm smarter and better than all of them!" He shouts, jumping up on his knees and punching Mycroft's bed with his tiny fists.

"You are, Sherlock!" Mycroft yells in frustration.

"But how do I get them to be my friends?" Sherlock yells back.

"You don't, Sherlock. Who needs friends when you've got books and brains? No one's like us, they all _care._"

"Care? Care about what?"

"Anything, everything," he answers with another eye roll and hand flourish. "Pick something."

"We don't care about anything?" Sherlock asks, not understanding. "But that's not true. I care about Mummy and Redbeard and you," he remarks innocently.

Mycroft groans loudly, "God, Sherlock, do grow up immediately. It will make my life _so_ much easier," he croaks as he returns to his book.

"What kinds of people don't care about anything?" Sherlock asks more to himself than Mycroft.

"Sociopaths," Mycroft says offhandedly. "Now get out of my room!" He roars. Sherlock finally complies.

Immediately after Mycroft kicked him out of his room, Sherlock pulls Father's dictionary out and looks up the word "sociopath." He reads:

_Sociopath_

_Syllabification: so·ci·o·path_

_Pronunciation: /ˈsōsēōˌpaTH _

_NOUN_

_A person with a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and behavior and a lack of conscience._

Sherlock also looks up the words "antisocial" and "conscience" too. He thinks he understands what Mycroft means now, saying they don't care. Sherlock shouldn't care because he _is_ better than other people, he _does_ see what others don't, even if Mycroft is better at observing than he is. Sherlock has learned how to deduce and observe, he can learn how to not care too. He'll teach himself to act without remorse, to be cold and calculating. If being superior means not having friends, than Sherlock supposes he just won't have friends. Who needs them when you're smarter and better than everyone anyway?

* * *

"That skull," John says one night during a James Bond marathon.

"Hmm?" Sherlock says through a mouth full of chips.

"It looks real."

"It is real," Sherlock says flatly, not looking away from the screen.

"Oh. Did…" he squints at it, studying it quickly, "_he_ have a name?"

Sherlock looks away to survey John.

"Billy," he says, turning back to look at it, the constant reminder looming large over Sherlock's life.

_This could be you._

* * *

Sherlock remembers Redbeard. He remembers playing with him in the garden and how much he loved chasing sticks. Redbeard also loved to be lazy and lay in the sun with Sherlock curled up next to him.

He remembers playing Peter Pan with him. Sherlock would pretend he was Hook and Redbeard was Smee, yelling at Redbeard to protect him from the nasty crocodile every time Mycroft would come outside to order him in for a bath before dinner.

Sherlock also remembers the day they put him down. He remembers he begged Mycroft to make Redbeard live forever. Mycroft refused. He told him, "Nothing lives forever, Sherlock, least of all your dog. Caring is not an advantage, baby brother."

Sherlock remembers that was the day he finally stopped caring. He remembers that was the day he finally grew up. He remembers it was the day he realized he would die one day too.

* * *

The first time Sherlock thinks about John is after the pool. He remembers when he thought, for just a split second, that John had actually tricked him into thinking he was his friend. Sherlock knows now he was foolish to ever think that, but still, it didn't stop him in that moment.

_Please, this can't be happening._

It was all he could think, which felt oddly to Sherlock like it was stretching out far longer than it actually was. He tries to slow down and deduce what's happening, but he's too stunned and nervous to think properly, to see what needs to be seen.

"_Observe, don't just look!"_ Mycroft shouts in Sherlock's mind palace. "_Narrow it __**down**__, Sherlock!"_

But he just can't think straight, it's all coming out in a jumble.

_That coat, not his, he had porridge for breakfast today, he's blinking too much, he left for that woman's house, what's her name?, is he scared?, can't tell, Redbeard, Mummy, he wanted me to buy milk, can't think, is he ok, not him._

_Please, no. Not him…_

But John was John. He was the same man Sherlock had grown to trust and admire and need.

Sherlock remembers the rush of emotions. He was excited, shocked, angry, nervous. He tries to keep calm, tries to keep his hand from shaking, tries to keep his voice even. He doesn't want to give away that he's actually terrified, that he's never felt more powerless. Sherlock also remembers that it wasn't him he was terrified for. It was John.

Talking to Moriarty, Sherlock tries to pretend to seem uncaring and cavalier, like he can't be bothered with Moriarty's threats, or to even be pointing a gun at him. He remembers Moriarty telling him he'd burn his heart out and retorting that he, in fact, did not have one.

"_But we both know that's not quite true," _Sherlock remembers Moriarty cooing at him. He remembers Moriarty narrowing his eyes at him. He remembers thinking he should know what he means.

John doesn't speak on the way home. Sherlock wants to say something while they're in the back of Lestrade's car, but he doesn't know what to say or where to start. John had offered to die for him, offered to die _with_ him. How do you thank someone for that? How do you tell them what that means to you? How do you tell someone what _they_ mean to you?

Sherlock remembers John climbing the stairs two at a time and slamming the door to his room without so much as a grunt of acknowledgment. Sherlock also remembers John didn't come out for a day and a half.

Lestrade stays with Sherlock for a bit after dropping them off. They both know why he does, but neither is willing to say it out loud. At vulnerable times like this when horrible things have happened, Lestrade is worried beyond measure that Sherlock will start using again. Back before John came into the picture, Mycroft would call Lestrade to sit with Sherlock and make sure he didn't use. He called them "danger nights." Lestrade has sat with Sherlock on more than two occasions, sometimes on Mycroft's orders and sometimes not. Sometimes even at Sherlock's request. The first few times, Sherlock would behave like a child. He'd throw tantrums and scream how he didn't need a babysitter, and Lestrade would always find a spare kit in one or more of Sherlock's hiding places. But each time the yelling would get quieter, the crying would get less frequent, and eventually the tantrums stop, and Lestrade doesn't find anymore kits or needles or cocaine in Sherlock's flat. He barely even finds so much as paracetamol in his medicine cabinet.

It's been a couple of years since Lestrade has had to stay with Sherlock for a full night. Lestrade always tells Mycroft that he does stay through the night, even if he only stays for an hour. Lestrade suspects Mycroft knows he's lying to him because he's seen how he can control the CCTV's. He's also seen Mycroft around Sherlock and he's pretty sure he's smarter than his younger brother, and if Lestrade thought Sherlock was a genius, then what does that make Mycroft? But Mycroft never so much as bats an eye at the senior detective.

Lestrade tells Sherlock he doesn't stay because he trusts him and that he knows Sherlock won't break that trust. It's this that makes Sherlock stay off the drugs. Lestrade is the first person to trust Sherlock implicitly, even after he knew what Sherlock got up to behind closed doors. Secretly, Sherlock is thankful Lestrade stays with him, even if only for a little while. He doesn't want to break his promise.

After Lestrade leaves, Sherlock climbs into bed and tries to sleep. But the adrenaline starts pumping every time he closes his eyes and all he sees is Moriarty's smiling face. He lies in bed and stares wide eyed at the ceiling, knowing John is right above him probably doing the same thing. Sherlock's heart is pounding and it's making a deafening sound in his ears.

_ba boom, Ba Boom, BA BOOM_

He keeps replaying what happened over and over and over again. How hurt he'd been at the thought that John had really been Moriarty all along, how relieved he'd been when it turned out he wasn't, how scared he'd been thinking John was moments away from being killed, how guilty he felt that he'd rather John be strapped to bombs than have been the man who was after him.

Without realizing it, Sherlock's hand drifts under the covers. He closes his eyes as he grips himself tight. He hasn't had to do this in a while, but now that he's started he can't convince himself to stop.

_The adrenaline,_ he reasons in his head,_ chemicals_…

Sherlock goes to his mind palace where all his knowledge of chemistry is. Chemicals and pheromones; dopamine and serotonin and testosterone and anything else he can think of to keep himself as rational as possible during this completely base act.

But then John walks into his mind palace and Sherlock starts to pump harder. It's all the little things he thinks about him that makes John John. John reading the newspaper in his robe, John laughing at crap telly with him at ridiculously late hours, John stumbling over Sherlock's kitchen experiments because he just can't get used to the beakers and burners laying about, John fussing over Sherlock because he hasn't eaten in 36 hours. John's hand brushing Sherlock's during dinner. The way John's voice sounds all fuzzy when he's just woken up. The way John looks at him when he's making deductions.

Sherlock pumps harder and faster and clenches his eyes closed even tighter. He moans loudly as he comes and his eyes flutter open towards the ceiling. He stays like that, feeling empty and alone, and doesn't know when he finally falls asleep.

* * *

**Sorry the update took a little longer than expected, life has a way of happening sometimes! Practice some good karma and R&R - it makes the Universe happy! XX K **


	4. Danger Night

**AN:**

**This chapter, as implied by the title, is all about Sherlock's drug addiction. So please read with caution if you have any drug addiction triggers or are working through an addiction yourself. And if you are struggling through an addiction of any kind, remember that you are so brave and so worthy of life and happiness - and I believe in you. **

* * *

**Chapter Four: Danger Night**

* * *

In between cases, Sherlock relaxes, though he'll never admit it. Sherlock genuinely only feels alive when he's working and trying to find the pieces to his puzzles, but even geniuses need to stop and breathe once in awhile. When he's working, it's like his brain doesn't switch off. Sherlock will only sleep for an hour or two at a time. He'll only eat every other day and even then it's only half a meal. He skims the newspapers, but doesn't really read them.

Sometimes when Sherlock is working on a case, he'll drink six cups of coffee a day. John says it makes him too hyper and it'll give him ulcers, but since he's stopped smoking, Sherlock yells at John that he needs it.

Sherlock remembers, years before he met John, when he used to inject cocaine when he worked on a case.

"_Stimulates my brain_," he'd reason with himself right before pushing the needle in. Sherlock would never admit out loud it was partly because he just liked the way it made him feel.

"I can stop anytime I want!" Sherlock once yelled at Mycroft when he caught him preparing his next injection. He remembers the way Mycroft looked at him, like Sherlock was something he didn't know anymore. He remembers that was the day their feud started.

But Sherlock doesn't do cocaine anymore. He remembers he made a promise to Lestrade, of all people.

* * *

"Hey...you all right?"

"I'm fine."

"Well I just thought maybe…"

Sherlock studies John as he stands in the corridor of their flat, anxious and afraid.

"What?" Sherlock snaps at him. "Spit it out."

"I just thought you might want some company. Hard blow and all…." he trails off again, his hand creeping slowly into the hairs in the back of his head. Sherlock focuses on the movement for a moment too long.

"Come on, Sherlock. Into the sitting room, I'll pour you a drink."

"No," he states sharply. He doesn't move from the landing of the stairs. John throws him a sympathetic look and opens his mouth to coax him into the flat.

"My brother called you, didn't he? From the morgue, yeah? Did he at least wait til I was out of eyesight or was he phoning you when I was still in the corridor?"

"Sherlock, just come up here and we'll talk. I'll get the good scotch. The fire's still going too."

"NO!" Sherlock shouts like a petulant child. John turns around stunned. He's heard Sherlock yell before, but never like this, never like a toddler who's about to throw a tantrum.

"What did Mycroft say to you." It's not a question.

John sighs, resigning himself to telling the truth. "He told me to stay up with you. You took his cigarette and he said that meant I had to stay with you all night."

Sherlock crunches his nose between his gloved fingers and laughs mirthlessly. John stands rigid, not knowing what to expect.

"Go to sleep, John. I don't need you to babysit me because I smoked a fag," Sherlock says cavalierly as he tries moving past John to go to his room. John blocks him with his arm.

"Sherlock, it's Christmas, and she's…." John whispers but trails off when he catches Sherlock's gaze.

"Let me by, John," Sherlock says in a too-quiet voice. John can feel the ice freeze in Sherlock's words. He gives him a pitying look.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" John still hasn't moved his arm.

"Not you," Sherlock shudders suddenly. "Not you too. You're not supposed to be like the rest of them," he says, hanging his head.

John concentrates on Sherlock, sensing his vulnerability, and is taken back to his time in the army. He's seen this so many times. Too many times. John lowers his arm finally.

"Just sit with me for an hour. Have one drink. And then I'll let you sit in your room all by yourself if you still want to."

Sherlock softens. He needs to realize already that he can trust John. He trusts John.

* * *

Lestrade first met Sherlock five years ago when he brought him a case shortly after being made detective inspector. Sherlock had seen the body of a woman who'd apparently committed suicide, according to the coroner. But Sherlock wasn't buying it. He investigated as much as he could until he was satisfied he knew what actually happened: the woman's younger brother had killed her in order to be the sole claimant to their mother's fortune.

Sherlock remembers taking his findings to every homicide detective at Scotland Yard and everyone laughing him out of their offices. Everyone except Detective Inspector Lestrade, the unit's newest DI. There had been something about Sherlock that Lestrade found genuine, and so he took the younger man at his word. Lestrade reopened the investigation into the woman's death and discovered Sherlock had been right about everything.

After that, Lestrade always called on Sherlock when a case proved too difficult or strange. He also referred people in need of a private detective to Sherlock. Both men won: Sherlock, not wanting it in the first place, let Lestrade take credit for all the crimes he solved, and Sherlock could support himself with the extra wages he earned from his referred clients. They kept on like that for months, and even though some people on Lestrade's team found Sherlock to be supremely annoying, Lestrade grew accustomed to having Sherlock around.

* * *

Sherlock remembers the one time he almost relapsed. The time Moriarty came to the flat and sat in his chair. The time he told him about fairy tales and heroes and villains. The time he told Sherlock he owed him a fall. He didn't get it at the time.

He didn't observe.

* * *

So when Lestrade starts to notice signs in Sherlock that something is wrong, he tries his best to reason his fears away. Sherlock has always been irritable, but lately, Lestrade is noticing even more irritation out of him. He has horrible bags under his eyes, but maybe he's just having more trouble than usual sleeping. And yeah, Sherlock always speaks quickly. But sometimes you can't even understand what he's saying at all.

But then Lestrade starts noticing other things, like Sherlock's nose bleeds often or his eyes seem bloodshot or that he can't stand still at crime scenes or he's constantly fidgeting in the car.

Lestrade realizes he's actually fond of the younger man, so he just keeps telling himself its stress. It isn't…. It can't be….

It has to be something personal that Sherlock isn't telling him. He'll tell him when he feels like telling him. He'll tell him….

But then Sherlock shows up to a crime scene one day with his pupils blown wide and his clothes barely buttoned properly, looking around the room like any second someone's going to come out of the shadows and stab him.

Lestrade is furious, both with Sherlock and himself. If he'd just said something sooner, this wouldn't be happening. If Sherlock had never started taking the drugs in the first place, this wouldn't have happened at all.

Lestrade wants to scream at Sherlock, wants to punch him and tell him he hates him, wants to arrest him right here and now and embarrass him by making his important brother have to come down to the station to get him out. But he knows none of this will do anything but push Sherlock farther down into his addiction. Lestrade knows he'll have to threaten Sherlock with the loss of the one thing he cares about. He hates to do it, but he knows it'll be the only way to get any results.

Sherlock remembers Lestrade pulling him into a room with a somber, broken expression on his face.

"Sherlock," he hesitates. Lestrade doesn't know how to begin, so he just blurts out his question. "How long have you been doing it?"

"Doing what?" Sherlock snaps at him. He's playing dumb, of course. He's clever, he reads people's faces and body language for a living. He knows exactly what Lestrade means.

"Don't play dumb with me, Sherlock! You know exactly what I'm talking about," Lestrade tries to keep his voice calm, but he's not being very convincing.

Sherlock blinks at him defiantly, like a teenager who's being confronted by their parent after they've done something terrible.

"Well, Sherlock!? Speed, coke, what!?" Lestrade knows getting angry at Sherlock won't do any good and he instantly regrets raising his voice at him.

Sherlock continues to blink and stare angrily at the older man in silence.

"I'm not stupid, I - "

"Could have fooled me," Sherlock cuts him off. Anything to provoke Lestrade into leaving this alone. But Lestrade knows now, knows that the way to get through to him isn't by screaming at him.

"I'm a police officer, Sherlock. I can tell when someone's taking drugs," Lestrade says evenly.

"So what if I am!? What's it matter to you!?" Sherlock spits. He doesn't like being pushed into a corner. He doesn't like being judged.

At this, Lestrade's face softens completely and Sherlock doesn't know what to think.

"You can't keep doing this. You can't. I won't allow it," Lestrade tells him.

"Oh, you won't allow it?" Sherlock sneers. "Who do you think you are, Mycroft?"

"No, I'm a Detective Inspector for New Scotland Yard. And as long as you're taking drugs, I can't let you consult," Lestrade says matter of factly. "I _won't_ let you."

At this, Sherlock's face screws up in anger and he starts saying whatever he can to cause Lestrade the most pain.

"You think _I_ need _you_!? You're a fucking moron! Your whole team is! You'd be nowhere without me!"

Sherlock continues with the empty insults for a couple more minutes. Lestrade remains silent throughout Sherlock's tantrum, his face drenched, not in anger, but concern, and it only makes Sherlock more furious.

"You think your conviction rate will stay anywhere near what it is now without me _handing _you guilty verdicts!? You're _nothing_ without me!" He howls in Lestrade's face. "**Nothing!**"

Finally, Sherlock stops screaming long enough to catch his breath.

"Well? Don't have anything to say now, _Detective Inspector_!?" Sherlock sneers, spitting in Lestrade's face.

Just like Sherlock was before, Lestrade is now silent, waiting for Sherlock to do or say something of actual value. The two stare at each other for a long second before Sherlock turns on his heels towards the door.

"Why, Sherlock?" Lestrade asks in a small voice.

Sherlock stops but doesn't turn around.

Lestrade shakes his head and says, "It doesn't matter why you started, it just matters that you stop."

Sherlock's back is still turned.

"I'll help you, Sherlock. But until you stop, I can't let you consult."

Sherlock's knuckles turn white as he grips the door handle hard, wanting desperately to be anywhere but where he is, but oddly unable to actually force his body to run out of the room. He stands rooted to the spot, struggling as whether to stay, run, or turn around and physically attack Lestrade. They're all crossing his mind, they all seem like viable options. Even high, Sherlock is sure he can take Lestrade in a fight. He's a skilled boxer and the only training Lestrade does at the gym is running. Sherlock would definitely win if he started a fight. But Sherlock waits too long to decide and before he can properly react, Lestrade gently grabs Sherlock's wrist, and Sherlock lets him.

"Look at me," Lestrade coaxes. He doesn't want to, doesn't want to see the concern and caring in Lestrade's face. He just wants that needle back in his arm.

"Sherlock," Lestrade whispers tenderly.

Sherlock lets out a shaky breath and feels the tears well in his eyes.

"I only started because it helped me think," Sherlock whispers shakily, surprising even himself by divulging this secret. "So much goes on and I can't filter it out and it just helped me focus on…" Sherlock trails off and lowers his head. It'll take him a long time to realize that he can't filter things out _because _of the cocaine, not in spite of it.

"It's ok," Lestrade reassures him. "It's gonna be ok."

"But now she's gone. She's gone, she left me…" And Sherlock starts to cry. It's the first time he's cried since he was a child.

Lestrade forcibly turns Sherlock so that he's facing him and Sherlock doesn't fight it. He places both hands on his shoulders and let's Sherlock cry into his hands.

"Sherlock, you're not alone. I'll help you." Sherlock finally looks up at him uncertainly.

"I don't know if I can," he says, sounding smaller than he ever has before.

"You can. And I'm here. But Sherlock," Lestrade starts, "you can't keep taking the drugs. You just can't. It's destroying you."

"How…how do I…" He doesn't like being this vulnerable. He feels weak and powerless. He just wants to run and never look back. It's only a matter of time before Lestrade turns into all the rest of them with their "weirdos" and "freaks" and "piss offs." It's only a matter of time.

"Sherlock, I will help you," Lestrade says, emphasizing every word. "Just promise me you'll stop. And I will help you."

Sherlock knows he needs to stop. He hasn't slept in days, his nose bleeds constantly, his heart is starting to beat erratically, and he can't keep food down. But the withdrawal scares him more than anything and he knows he can't do it alone, now that Samantha's left him. But alone is all he has. Alone is what he is.

Almost like Lestrade can see inside his mind, he says, "You're not alone. Just promise me. Please."

Lestrade bends down to look into his downcast eyes. "I believe in you, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinks at him several times incredulously. No one's ever had such faith in him before. No one's ever _believed_ in him. Sherlock can't form any words, so he just nods.

And so Sherlock doesn't take drugs anymore. At least he tries not to. Now he drinks six cups of coffee a day and wears three nicotine patches at a time and relishes secondhand smoke and tries not to think about that rush of sunshine shooting up his arm and down into his body.

* * *

**So sorry for the delay in this chapter, my friends. I was in the process of moving from The States to London and I wasn't managing my time as well as I should have been. So if you've stuck around for this long, thank you so much and know I appreciate you! Chapter 5 will be done soon!**

**As always, RR - it pleases the Universe, and me too! XX K**


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